


Ich Erinnere Mich

by ashe_urbanipal



Series: Good Times: A Fruits Basket Fanzine [1]
Category: Fruits Basket, Fruits Basket (Anime 2001), Fruits Basket (Anime 2019), Fruits Basket - Takaya Natsuki (Manga)
Genre: Absent Parents, Bullying, Gen, Gender Identity, Gender Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 07:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25346872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashe_urbanipal/pseuds/ashe_urbanipal
Summary: What is rebellion? What is gender? What is happiness and despair and the memories they bring? Momiji reflects.
Series: Good Times: A Fruits Basket Fanzine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1835614
Kudos: 2





	Ich Erinnere Mich

**Author's Note:**

> Good Times: A Positive Fruits Basket Zine originated in 2019 as a fun Fruits Basket fanzine. As 2020 hit and the world became...well...you know...it became clear the zine wouldn't get the physical release originally planned. Instead, we decided to make it totally digital and offer all proceeds to various charities. This is one of my pieces for it, posted with permission.  
> Buy the full zine on itch.io to see more great fanwork and fan art. 
> 
> furubazine.itch.io

Hangers of clothing slide, scraping the bar, rattling my ears. I'm searching, searching for the day's apparel. Something light to pair with the boxy, manly, swimming shorts I've crawled into. I murmur to myself. Verdammt. I press my fingers to my lips. How vulgar to say such things even in the solitude of my own house. I consider a lacey pink shirt with bows on the sleeves. A memory flits through my head. A boy, faceless, nameless, one of the multitudes who hover ceaselessly around me, dodging in and out of the shadows of my periphery.  
"Do you where girl's underwear, too? Paaaannntties? Braaaas?" And they giggled and gagged on their laughter.  
I would be lying if I said I hadn't considered it.  
How much of a fuss would it be were I to appear on the beach in a bikini? Polka dots and frills? How even the friends I love like family and the family who've become like friends would have no choice but to waver in their defense of me. I know that's the line even I couldn't cross, that it would be too much. That I should relegate myself to these horrid things I'm wearing now with their straight lines and muted colors. With their total lack of vibrancy and life.  
Insubordination is also not the point.  
Satin and ruffles and ribbons and bows are not rebellion, for me. They're not naivety or delusion or stupidity. They're a memory. A memory of when things were softer, simpler, quieter. Before I knew how harsh the world could be, before I waited for the darkness around every blind corner. A memory I can live and breathe in, that I can pull strength from when the walls close in. A light in a pitch black room. A memory that I'm unwilling to let go of. Not yet, at least. Not while I still can. While the mask still sticks to a baby's face and a tiny frame.  
I find it.  
A lightweight, white t-shirt, unisex and boring. But it rebuffs sand and sun from pale, easily burned skin. A hat, too, wide-brimmed and beige, to cover blond hair. Partially from the sun but mostly from prying eyes that don't understand. Eyes that just see "different." That see "not one of us."  
Sandals click and clack as I run across the family grounds to the gate.  
"Different" and "not one of us" starts even here, the moment I cross my own threshold, and I flee to escape it. If only I had a high collar to hide behind, a curling eyelet sleeve to cover my face and soften the blow.  
On the street, a car is already waiting. A benefit of the Sohma name. A gift by unfortunate association. I fling my body into the back seat, pressing my knees up to my chest as I land. I take a deep breath then let it out slow.  
"Guten Morgen!" I chirp like a bird, bright. Squeaking. Is this my voice? It must be, though I don't recall it carrying this broken cadence. "To Shigure's house, please. Danke!" The driver gives me a helpful nod, smiling tightly. I lean my shoulders back against the seat. I breathe it in, black leather worn soft in spots.  
A memory of my father. One that lives in the present but maybe also the past. A recollection spread thin through time. Of briefcases and polished shoes. Of quick half-embraces behind closed doors. Of secrets and solitude and watching through the glass at a life I could have had. Should have had. I crease my nose against the thought. Try to bring up the scent of my mother. Of her soft, soapy warmth. Like paper and linen and candle wax on a cold, winter night. But I can't find it. It's lost somewhere in the wash of memories, drifting away across the salty sea. I shake my head, trying to dust off the deeper parts of my mind, but it's no use.  
I sink back into the seat and try not to think.

The driver doesn't say anything as we pull up to the house, just stops the car with a shudder and a shake.  
"Danke für Ihre Dienstleistung!" I say to him, falling over my feet to escape the car. He doesn't understand me, but that's just part of it, isn't it?  
The earth is soft and it tries to grab the sandals from my feet. I hop to the path instead, padding across the stones. Branches, flower buds just peeking out from their homes, reach out to me from the forest that encircles the house. This, too, is Sohma land, but the soil here is free of that name, disinherited by those expectations. I feel light. Airy. I waft through the summer air, bask in the morning heat. I let my backpack fall down to my elbows. It's a shield of fuzzy ears and cute, embroidered faces. I don't need it here.  
"Momiji! Hurry up!" I know that voice, that purr that cracks through the sunshine. It lifts the corners of my mouth, softens the edges of my thoughts. He bullies me. Sharp reflections of pinched noses and flicked ears and punched arms. But they pair with soft hands that pat my head and lay themselves warmly on my shoulders. Love and affection that doesn't know how to express itself.  
"Did you bring the sparklers?" I nod to the other voice, the soft one that's been shored up with nihilistic anticipation. That's been beaten and broken. Those are not my memories, though I sometimes wish I could share them with him. Not to take them, but to help him bear them if only a little bit.  
Up on the porch. Through the sliding door.  
"Momiji!" Tohru, arms wide, stopping herself from falling into a hug.  
And the world is flowers and fruits, spun sugar petals that kiss my skin and melt into syrup. Every memory she inhabits, no matter how bittersweet, wraps around me like fine wool, hugging me close even though her actual arms can't. I lock that smile away, one of a thousand. A hundred thousand. A million. Unendlich. A voice that reaches back into my everything and paints it all pastel just because they would come to lead me to her.  
And, yet again, I think if every memory I make from now on should have just a little bit of her in it, I might never dread the creation of them ever again.


End file.
